


Almost Lovers

by lavender_euro505



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, But in this he’s just Gibson the Ghost, Finger Sucking, Gibson’s Real Name is Philippe Hugo Guillet, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Dunkirk Evacuation, Shameless Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, World War II, alex is fed up with the self-pity, ghost!gibson, gibson does die in this one, he dies off screen basically, horny!tommy, set two years after dunkirk, tommy grieves Gibson’s death, well he’s dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26315392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavender_euro505/pseuds/lavender_euro505
Summary: Tommy finds himself reaching out to Alex for help when thoughts of Gibson nearly consume him two years after the Dunkirk evacuation.
Relationships: Gibson/Tommy, Tommy & Alex
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Almost Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday fic. It starts off super angsty and then gets super smutty, so there you go. In short, it’s a mess. Sorry. Enjoy!

_“It’s wrong, but I’d live with it,” he’d said._

Years later, Tommy wasn’t so sure.

He could never explain to his mother why he’d suddenly start crying into his soup at tea. “Eat your soup or cry,” his Grandad had said. “But you’re not doing both.” 

It wasn’t something easily talked about around a pint of beer with his mates. The words didn’t flow when his older sister asked nor his younger one. Even his grandad, the one who would understand the most in his family, couldn’t break through Tommy’s walls. 

That’s why Tommy found the address of Alex Emerson in 1942 and wrote to him. 

“So, you couldn’t live with it after all, eh?” Alex raised his pint to his lips, taking a long drink. Tommy watched and thought, _bastard._

Instead, he shakes his head solemnly and brings his own drink to his lips.

“Sorry sod’s probably at the bottom of the ocean now. Or swept into the tide,” Alex licks his lips and sets his drink back down on the bar they’re sat at. “Either way, he’s lucky.” 

Tommy glares at him.

“Lucky?” Alex shrugs.

“Yeah. He doesn’t have to live through this hell we’re living in. He’s free, mate.” He raises his eyebrows at him and tilts his head as if to say, you know I’m right.

Tommy scoffs, pushing away the drink Alex paid for.

“You can’t be serious, can you?” Alex sighs, pushing his beer back too.

“Tommy, think about it. Would you rather be dead or fight in this bloody war?” 

“I’d much rather be alive.”

“So, you’d be fighting then. Brilliant!” Alex picks up his drink and finishes it off. “I rest my case.”

“Gibson’s dead because of us,” Tommy can’t help the heat behind his words. Alex matches him, his voice as gritty as it had been in the trawler.

“No. Gibson is dead because of some Jerry bastards. This French bloke thought he could get ahead by deception.” 

“And we let him die,” Tommy bites back. “That’s on us.” 

“No, that’s on you, mate,” Alex waves at the barkeep for another draft. “I’ve moved on. It’s about time you have too.” 

Tommy’s had enough of this. He didn’t come here for a lecture about his grief, about his trauma. He simply wanted to talk to someone who could understand him. Someone who’d been there.

He stands up, throwing a few notes onto the bar. 

“I’ve got to go. This was a mistake.” He rushes out, pulling on his coat, hoping Alex doesn’t try to persuade him to stay. 

He doesn’t.

“Mate, you said it yourself you wanted to live,” he calls after him, instead. “Just because he died doesn’t mean you have to. Think about it.”

Tommy stops just before pushing the door open on his way out and looks back at Alex. He sees a young man, not much older than him, staring back, an amber colored beer at his lips. His eyes are shining and his hair is pushed back and dark. He looks older than he should be. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to take Alex’s words to heart. 

Tommy turns away and lets himself stumble out of the pub they’d agreed to meet at. 

It’s not quite dark out, the sun just barely peeking over the clouds. He’s on leave now, from an earlier tour through North Africa, and he feels like his body isn’t ready to stay still for too much longer. 

Fighting meant surviving. Surviving meant living. He wanted to live, he’d said. He meant it. But he wanted him to live, too. 

There was a break in the clouds where the sun shone the brightest as he looked up at the train times on the platform. Luckily the station wasn’t too far from the pub they were at, so it was an easy walk. Even after one pint, Tommy’s legs felt like Jell-O. 

The next train back to Mile End was in the next fifteen minutes. Gripping the ticket in his pocket, he supposes he could wait that long. It wasn’t too crowded around the platform, so he went upstairs to have a sit. The air was cool and he could see people hurrying back and forth from shops and pubs and restaurants below. The Blitz had ended last year, but he thinks the remnants of the terror still crept back up when darkness fell. People scurried below him trying to get back home, like him. 

Staring into the setting sun made him feel at ease. Somehow, it felt like a new beginning and maybe Alex’s words had truth in them. Maybe all he needed was to stop killing himself with the tortured memory of Gibson. 

He stands up, walking closer to the railing on the bridge above the train. He grips the cold metal, eyes closing, hoping to erase the frightened, dusty face that haunts his dreams. A train whistle squeals some distance from him and he wants to scream too to match the sound. 

He tries, but there’s a lump in his throat and he can feel the heat behind his eyes as tears begin to form. The tender skin on the palm of his hands starts to sting with the effort it takes to hold the railing and not send himself over it. Tommy’s not sure what he wants, what he wants to do. All this pain keeps building and there’s nowhere to put it. 

He shakes himself, as if he could bend apart the metal structure he stood on, his torso pushing into the railing further and further. The train screams again. His time is up. He has to go. He screams, but nothing comes out. When he takes his hands away and stumbles back onto the pavement, his hands are red and sore. He can hear the train car emptying as the sounds of people’s voices drift toward him. As he makes his way down the long steps, a man shoulders into him, knocking him into the stairwell. He trips over himself and falls into the crowd of people at the bottom of the concrete stairs. 

“Oi!” He can hear a man shout as Tommy shields his face from the impact, his hands scraping along the pavement. Embarrassed and bleeding, he picks himself up, with the help of a concerned passerby, and tries to shuffle along the platform like nothing happened. He stuffs his hands into his coat pockets and they feel like the skin has been ripped off they sting so much. He shoulders the pain. Somehow, he feels like he deserves it. 

There’s a large group of people up ahead getting into an empty train car, factory workers from the looks of it, and he shuffles himself to stand behind them. The train whistles again. It was almost time to leave. 

The woman ahead of him is wearing what looks like a mended dress and matching coat. Her boots drag across the ground as she moves with the crowd. She keeps glancing nervously back at Tommy, and in her eyes he sees something familiar. 

In his mind’s eye, he sees those eyes that far away look ocean blue, but upon better inspection are a sea green color - soft like springtime. It’s that image that carries him on the train back home in an almost dazed stupor. 

Back in his suburb, away from the judgemental eyes of Alex, Tommy finds himself in a secret place just outside his home, hidden between brick houses and shrubbery. There was a disclosed space near the back of the houses where teenagers would go in his early youth for a cheeky snog. Sometimes you could hear an orgasmic cry or two, if you were really listening. 

Tommy found himself there, alone, with his sore hand stuffed down the front of his loose trousers. His face streaked in tears, gritting his teeth, and regretting what he’s lost. The night is still and his gasping breath sounds amplified in the quietness as he hurriedly jerks himself thinking of Gibson. The Frenchman’s face is imprinted into his memory and for a moment he feels ashamed to want to get off to the thought of him. 

Tommy’s doubled over himself, slumped to his knees, sobbing silently. His hands slip from his softening cock as he tries to calm himself down. Gutted was as close as he could get to describing the feeling. For some reason, he thought that maybe he could fuck away the grief - this terribly sick feeling he had when he thought of love. 

He was still young, fit and had everything in the right place, his mother had told him last week. He was sure to find a pretty lass to sweep off her feet. He swallowed the rude words about wanting to suck cock instead that threatened to leave his mouth. He’d finished his tea in a hurry, he was so angry and put out by her comment. He knew she didn’t mean to harm him, but every comment sent him to an early grave. 

Sat in the cold darkness outside, Tommy leans his head against the brick barrier. He closes his eyes remembering a letter that Alex had sent him. It was short, so it was easy to memorize.

 _Dear Tommy,_ he’d written.

 _Don’t be a bloody idiot. What kind of legacy would you leave if you offed yourself now? Dead men tell no tales of their own glory, do they? So, go on and live for you and maybe for your friend too. He deserves that respect, don’t you think? He’d want you to live. He seemed like the type, didn’t he? Don’t make any rash decisions, like marrying the first girl that looks your way… It’ll take time, but I promise you, it will be better. Sooner or later._

_In the meantime, pick yourself up again and live. You didn’t make it this far to go out early. It’s what he would’ve wanted..._

Tears leave hot trails down Tommy’s face as he lets his feelings consume him. It wasn’t fair, his mind told him. It isn’t fair. Why place a person in someone’s life only for that person to be snatched away? What tale could Tommy possibly tell in Gibson’s place? 

Almost lovers sounds like a sad story. 

Tommy looks down at his opened trousers. Sounds like a sad wank, more like. 

Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair and decides Alex just might be right. Gibson deserved more. 

Tucking himself in and making himself decent, he walks back to his house. It’s relatively quiet inside and it appears everyone’s already asleep. Tommy creeps up toward his bedroom, quickly prepares a candle and sits down at his desk. There’s a pot of ink, a quilled pen and a few scraps of paper he bunged off his sister, Annie. The blank pages start to mock him as his eyes try to tear through the pages, willing himself to write something. 

Dead men tell no tales of their own glory, he whispers to himself. He begins to write.

 _This is no sad story._

_It’s an almost love story._

A crack of thunder in the distance shakes him and ink gets spilled across the page. 

“Dammit.” He curses, scrapping the ruined paper and wiping his ink stained hands on his trousers. 

A rush of wind blows his candle out and before he knows it his bedroom door is slammed shut as he’s sitting in darkness. There’s a chill down his spine as he whips his head toward the direction of his door. 

“Fucking hell,” he mumbles, scrambling out of his chair. 

The sky is lit up with the sound of a storm brewing and as Tommy peeks out his blackout window, the light of the moon illuminates the entire street below. Then, the rain starts.

Fumbling in the darkness, he lights the candle again, shaking. Another crack of thunder and he jumps at the sound of a thump knocking against the wall. 

Was it the Blitz again? 

He finally manages to light the candle and his room is enveloped by an amber glow. He breathes out once and sits back at his desk, but this time it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. He clears his throat, picks up his pen and dips it into the ink. Gibson, he chants like a mantra and begins to write. 

_This is no sad story. It’s an almost love story._

He puts a hand to his chest, over his heart, to calm himself. He closes his eyes and counts slowly to ten. 

By the time he opens them again, he’s freezing and feels wet, and it smells like sand and saltwater. 

At his window, a gentle glow around him, stands the one person who won’t leave his troubled mind. 

“Gib-Gib…?” Tommy chokes out, watching in stunned fascination as the figure moves toward him with a determined look. The entity cups their hand around Tommy’s face, tilting his head back slightly and inspecting him. Tommy is breathless, still. 

The fingers tickling his jaw slip around his neck and caress the hairs at the back of his neck. Tommy’s eyes start to flutter close until he realizes what is happening. 

A fucking spirit is teasing him. Gibson’s ghost is fucking with him. 

Tommy gulps and looks at the figure before him.

It looks just like Gibson: same hair, same eyes and lips, too. Tommy starts to say something and opens his mouth, but the figure’s thumb finds its way inside and silences him. 

Tommy swallows his words and his mind is back in the alleyway where he was earlier tonight. Good God, could ghosts read minds? 

The figure nods and grins. No -- _smirks._ The smug fucker. 

Tommy feels his eyes roll into the back of his head as Gibson the ghost caresses his tongue with the pad of his thumb. There’s no taste and it’s not warm, but also not cold. Tommy’s not thinking about how to describe it. His only thoughts go straight to his dick, really. 

Was this _really_ helpful, his mind asked him. No, he replied. He was just horny and missing someone. 

Gibson slips his thumb from Tommy’s mouth and moves toward the narrow bed pushed against the wall. He sits on it gingerly, waiting for it to creak like it usually does, but this time it doesn’t. Gibson meets Tommy’s eyes. The Englishman doesn’t need to be beckoned twice. He’s at Gibson’s side in an instant, but the ghost pushes him to the floor instead, motioning for him to get onto his knees. Tommy looks up at him in awe, doing as he wants - anything he wants. He quickly shuffles in between Gibson’s knees, hoping that’s what he was asking for. 

Gibson nods. 

Good boy, Tommy’s mind tells him. It’s starting to sound like… 

Oh, God. Gibson was in his head now, speaking to him like this? 

The ghost grins and nods again, petting Tommy’s ruffled hair. On his knees, Tommy makes a whining sound and leans into Gibson’s touch. 

This makes Gibson’s grin wider as his fingers sink into Tommy’s thick, dark hair, scratching lightly at the scalp. Tommy can’t help the sounds he’s making, but he just hopes to God his family can’t hear him now. 

No, his mind reassures him. We’re in our own world now. 

Tommy shuffles forward, trying to keep the heavy pressure off of his knees and his chest reaches the edge of the bed. He can’t really smell anything, but he imagines that he can, at this point, smell Gibson’s arousal as much as his own. He’d been half hard since an hour ago, at least. The heady scent felt intoxicating combined with the steady work of not one, but two of Gibson’s hands massaging him everywhere: his head, his neck, his shoulders. 

Tommy bites his lips, wanting more, but his mind whispers, “Patience.”

He doesn’t want to wait, he stubbornly tells himself. At that, Gibson pulls his face forward and Tommy goes careening into the ghost’s crotch. He rubs his face against him to satisfy himself and he can feel his pants growing tight and wet as he moans into the source of Gibson’s arousal. It’s everything, yet still not enough. 

He feels himself ache from behind at how much he wants this man sitting on his bed. He wonders how in the fresh hell he could possibly have him, and his mind answers, _anyway you want me, Tommy._ He whines at that.

With his face still pressed against Gibson’s straining cock, the ghost rocks against him gently, Tommy’s face slack at his length. With a sharp gasp, Tommy’s lifted up from the floor and on top of Gibson as the latter spreads himself across the bed. His slightly stocky, built form breathes heavily from where he lays beneath the Englishman, his cock straining ridiculously from his trousers. 

Tommy goes to touch him. Gibson allows it, biting his lip as he does. 

His small hand makes an L-shape as it forms itself around the clothed cock that he wants. Gibson bucks his hips up in response, making Tommy’s hand work a little faster. Mouth slightly open and sea green eyes dilated and looking straight at him, Tommy wants to snog the life out of him. 

Gibson grins, chuckling a little. 

“Shit,” Tommy says aloud, wincing. Gibson rolls his eyes, pulls him in and snogs the life out of him instead. 

It’s what you wanted, Gibson whispers to Tommy in his mind. The younger boy confirms, nodding his head and moaning into Gibson’s mouth unabashedly. Without thinking too much about it, Tommy’s shirt is coming off and his trousers are being undone for the second time that night. 

His pants are slightly wet where he’s been leaking, thinking of his almost lover.

Gibson grabs for his arse and Tommy hears him growl in his mind. He seems to say, _mine_ , as he does so. Tommy answers back with, _yours._

As the ghost continues to rock forward onto Tommy’s bare thigh, sending the boy’s head spinning and his backside throbbing, Gibson pauses for a moment to look Tommy in the eye. 

Lifting his head from his sexual stupor, Tommy nods incessantly, feeling himself throbbing open and close for someone to breach him. He’s never done that before, he muses. He didn’t even realize his muscles worked quite that way, until now. 

You’ll discover a lot you didn’t know, _mon chaton,_ Gibson’s voice tells him, as he slips a finger down the back of Tommy’s pants. His finger ghosts across the bit that wants him most and Tommy instinctually feels himself pushing back for more of his phantom touch. Gibson, the little devil, Tommy thinks, continues to tease him a little bit longer. 

The ghost chuckles at that thought as Tommy is close to really and truly losing his mind. He buries his face into the crook of Gibson’s neck and lifts his bum in the air like he wants to be taken like an animal. He bites the blanket beneath them and it’s the only thing that keeps him from screaming. Gibson is motionless beneath him, apparently in shock at the way Tommy is simultaneously humping the space between them and waving his arse in the air like he’s in heat. 

The younger boy hears Gibson’s belt come undone and he feels his pants shuffle off of his legs and land to the floor. Tommy helps him peel the shirt off and the boy quickly runs his palms over the broad expanse of Gibson’s chest. He’s smooth, Tommy notices, and feels warmer than he did when they first began this… situation, but not by much. Still a ghost and all that, Tommy reckons. 

Gibson is watching him with lidded eyes and Tommy shyly looks back at him, suddenly feeling embarrassed about his behavior earlier. 

He notices it seems to please Gibson a lot, because his cock is straining the confines of his ghostly pants and Tommy feels around for the sticky, wet spot in the front of them. Tommy fingers along the length of him, as Gibson lifts himself up to be touched. Tommy’s watching him, cataloguing his expressions, wanting to capture his sighs with his mouth. 

Tommy’s not too experienced when it comes to sex, but he’s happened upon a few couples in his time and seen a magazine or two to know enough. He’s still clueless, however, on how men do it. 

You’ll find that it comes easily, Gibson purrs, stroking Tommy’s cock lazily, smearing his wetness over the head. Tommy nearly comes just from that. The younger boy's pants are a mess and Gibson helps him remove them as they switch places. Gingerly, Tommy steps out of the ruined underwear he wore, a cold chill covering his skin, as he stands before the bed, waiting. Gibson ushers him against the bed, as he goes to stand behind him and drops his underwear too. 

It takes every ounce of strength within Tommy not to simply bend over then and there. 

“Do we need a sheath?” Tommy wonders aloud, as Gibson rocks against his arse in a slow, measured way. 

Not tonight, Gibson answers in his mind, _mon petit..._

Tommy’s eyes roll to the back of his head as Gibson’s cock rubs experimentally against the heat of his arse. The head of him is wet and slick, making a mess of Tommy and sending the boy headfirst into the bedsheets, delirious with want. He feels feverish all over as he arches his back like he’s seen pretty pin-ups do, and hopes he looks like a pretty boy for Gibson. 

Always, _mon amour,_ Gibson whispers, his accented English thick, sensuous. He’s wise, Tommy thinks, to use it to his advantage. 

It’s in no time that they flush against one another, the gentle glow of Tommy’s burning candle creating dancing shadows on the wall. The rain is heavy outside, but the claps of thunder have taken a rest and all that fills Tommy’s ears are the sounds of his own heavy breathing. Gibson pushes him until he’s against the duvet, as he feels an incessant wet force trying to pry him open. Tommy moans, wanting to open himself up for the man above him, squeezing around nothing as his bum seeks its point of contact. 

He hears a slick sound behind him, like someone rubbing oil between their hands. Tommy glances behind him, to see Gibson knelt behind him, eyes focused on where his two fingers are trying to breach Tommy open. He’s not even sure what that wet sound is, but whatever it is it’s warm when it meets the gasping hole that wants to suck Gibson’s fingers right in. 

Tommy's throat opens up in a low moan as he feels his body suctioning in Gibson’s fingers like a lifeline. It’ll come naturally, Gibson tells him. Tommy reckons he’s right, as his body takes over the task of welcoming a couple more fingers with relative ease. Unbidden, he pushes back and forth on Gibson’s hand, stuffed heavy inside his arse. It burns and aches, but he’s hungry for the wet slick sound he hears each time he pulls away and pushes back onto the man behind him. 

Gibson picks up his speed, using his other free hand to caress Tommy’s back and hips. 

I make love, Tommy, I don’t fuck, he tells him low and gritty. The younger boy can do nothing but whimper around the loss of pressure as Gibson apparently prepares to finally sink himself inside. Tommy drools, ruubbing his face all over the bed sheets beneath him, bidding the man to take everything. Take it all, he repeats over and over in his mind. It’s not long that he feels Gibson guiding himself into his nearly searing heat, sinking deeply inside, as the ghost wraps himself around the Englishman’s body. There’s no gaps between them now, as Gibson experimentally shifts his hips upwards to hump into the boy gripping him tightly. Tommy’s not sure what he’s even doing, but as long as he keeps his arse up and his body loose, he thinks he’s doing something right.

Above him, Gibson nips at his earlobe, flicking his tongue teasingly. Coupled with the way the Frenchman’s hips slap against the meatiest part of Tommy’s arse, feeding him every aching inch, the younger boy reaches for the head board, ready to brace himself. He ruts himself deliriously into his bed, willing Gibson to do the same. Seated deeply within him, Gibson drags his cock slowly out of Tommy’s willing body, as he kisses down the nape of the boy’s neck. 

It feels like an eternity since they’d began and Tommy’s not sure how long he’ll last given how tight his balls feel. Gibson uses his lips to suck a bruise into Tommy’s neck, his dick pulsating with every snap of his hips. Tommy is gasping, hoping he’ll remember how this feels in the morning, as Gibson grasps him and teases his fingers around his tip. Tommy’s so wet around the head that his fingers keep slipping around his length, down and back up again, over the ridge and against his leaking slit. Tommy cries at the sensitive touch, feeling like he’s about to come apart. Gibson quickens his pace, whispering frantic cries of ecstasy in French to his almost lover. 

_I need you, he says._

_I want you, he begs._

_I love you, he cries._

He says it in English, too, for good measure and it sends Tommy into a spiral of _want, want, want._

His body reacts instantly; he’s so close with Gibson there. He’s glad he didn’t finish himself off like he’d planned in the alley outside. Tommy feels himself jerk forward, in Gibson’s incessant touch. It’s sticky and wet, with sweat and come between them, as Tommy’s body is pressed into the mattress. To Tommy’s surprise, the bed doesn’t protest and neither does he, as Gibson’s sturdy hips snap up and into his open body. 

_Comme on a besoin de manger, j’ai besoin de toi,_ Gibson tells him, the words running together as his hips stutter into Tommy. He doesn’t bother translating because it’s enough really to get Tommy so worked up he's gasping and reaching and everything is rubbing in all the right places and _good god_ , he’s so close.

Gibson changes his pace and the bed starts rocking, just as a shuddering clap of thunder shakes the frame of the house. 

Their love was truly electric, eh, Tommy can’t help the giggle that escapes. Gibson laughs with him, for the same reason or another, as he slams into him repeatedly. 

Tommy, Gibson’s voice streams out in a velvety tone through Tommy’s mind. The Frenchman's fingers tease at the tip of Tommy again, feeling their way through his wetness, down toward his balls, and stroking across his taint to where they were joined. It’s all Tommy needs to release himself and come into the sheets with a gasp and Gibson’s name on his lips. 

Philippe, Gibson whispers, snapping his hips into the boy beneath him. He repeats the name until Tommy is saying it too, urging him to release himself inside of him, urging Gibson to make Tommy his.

 _All yours,_ Gibson confesses with a grunt and a squelching release into Tommy’s gasping arse.

It’s the best sex Gibson has had. It’s the only sex Tommy has had and he’s too sex-dazed to wonder if he’ll ever get to experience it again. 

Gibson falls atop of him and cradles the contented boy into his arms. Slipping out of him, Tommy feels empty and ungrounded. It was like a tether used to fuse them together again and he reached behind him to feel the Frenchman once more. Gibson smiles, kisses his neck and props himself above him to stare in reverence. 

There’s a gentle rain outside to match Tommy on the inside: washed clean in Gibson’s love and care. 

They turn to face each other, exhausted. Their eyes blink lazily and Gibson’s mouth breaks into helpless smiles.

“I love you,” Tommy confesses, like it’s a surprise - a secret. 

“Then give me the honor of remembering me as a hero. A lost love from Dunkerque.” Gibson’s eyes look watery, an apology written on his face. There’s a pain deep in Tommy’s chest, but he ignores it in favor of watching the way Gibson’s eyes bore into his. 

Sleep, Gibson tells him in his mind. I’ll be here, he assures, wrapping strong arms around Tommy’s middle and pulling him close. 

Tommy doesn’t mind that they wrap themselves in the dirtied blankets. He just hopes that Gibson might be there in the morning. That this entire fantasy wasn’t just some delicious dream he’d had. 

He feels his eyes grow heavy as the Frenchman kisses his eyelids, effectively lulling him to sleep. 

At least then, his memory will be sweet.

It was the first time, in a long time, that Tommy truly felt alive.


End file.
